starting fires
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: 1. Bellatrix appears in Alice's bedroom on her wedding night.
1. Wedding Night Regrets (BellatrixAlice)

_For Bex_

_Word Count: 766_

* * *

Maybe Alice should have a million other questions when she finds Bellatrix Black in her bedroom, but the first thing that comes out is, "Aren't you supposed to be getting married?"

Bellatrix smiles. Her lips are painted like rubies, and Alice can't seem to look away. She's missed those lips more than she would like to admit.

But those days are over. She and Bellatrix have made their choices, and that's that. So why is she here? More importantly, why does Alice want her to come closer.

"Oh, I've already married him," Bellatrix answers, smirking. "No one believes either of us want it, I assure you."

Alice swallows dryly, her eyes moving over Bellatrix's body. She doesn't trust herself. "I think you should leave."

"I don't think I will." Bellatrix pushes herself off the bed and makes her way across the room, hips swaying hypnotically with each step. "I have a proposition for you, my pet."

"What sort of a proposition?"

Why is Alice still entertaining this idea? She and Bellatrix fell apart for a reason. There's no point in clinging to hope and playing pretend.

But she can't seem to walk away.

"Make this a night I won't forget," Bellatrix says, ghosting her fingertips down Alice's cheek.

"Y-you're married."

"Yes, and I'm supposed to consummate my marriage," Bellatrix says simply.

"With your husband! Not with me!"

Bellatrix shrugs. "I don't particularly care for Rodolphus." She drops her her hand to Alice's waist, squeezing her tightly and roughly pulling her forward. "You, on the other hand."

It isn't love. Alice reminds herself of this again and again, but it does little good. Maybe Bellatrix only sees her as a possession, a toy to keep until she grows bored, but Alice doesn't care. The fire never died, and it's so easy to melt.

"Okay," Alice whispers.

"I can't hear you."

The flames seem to grow, and Alice is frenzied. She rests her hands on Bellatrix's shoulders as moves forward, guiding the other woman to the bed. "I said okay," Alice repeats, pushing her onto the bed before lifting the skirt of Bellatrix's dress.

"Not so fast," Bellatrix murmurs. "I'm in no hurry."

"Neither am I," Alice assures her before slowly kissing her way up Bellatrix's thighs.

There's something so beautiful about the way Bellatrix squirms and moans as Alice's lips tickle her delicate skin. As long as she's known her, Bellatrix has always been so strong, so fierce. No one can shake her.

No one except Alice.

Alice pushes herself up, hovering over her lover. Bellatrix looks so inviting, her dark curls forming a halo on the coral sheets.

"Don't make me beg," Bellatrix growls, but Alice hears the quiver in her voice.

"I bet you sound so pretty when you beg."

Bellatrix's eyes narrow, but all Alice has to do is cup her breast and massage it gently. It works like a charm. The other woman squirms, more frantic now. She bucks her hips, whimpering with desperate need for relief.

Alice loves it. This comes so naturally to her, and every little moan of pleasure from Bellatrix drives her forward.

"Please," Bellatrix says, biting her lip. "Please."

"All you had to do was ask," Alice chuckles before lowering her head to rest between Bellatrix's thighs.

…

There's a glow about Bellatrix when they're done. Alice collapses beside her, gasping and covered in sweat. A quick glance at the clock tells her it's nearly midnight, and they've been at it for hours.

"Won't your husband miss you?" Alice asks. "It's nearly midnight."

"I told you. Neither of love the other." Bellatrix sits up, pushing her wild hair back. "We should do this again."

Alice is about to agree when she sees the mark on Bellatrix's arm. The familiar skull and serpent hurts to look at; it reminds her exactly why they fell apart, why Bellatrix will never be hers.

She sighs heavily, leaning in and kissing Bellatrix's bare shoulder. Her lips taste like salt when she pulls away. "I don't think we should," she whispers. "I'm literally sleeping with the enemy."

"We weren't always enemies."

But Alice doesn't want to think about that. She doesn't want to think about how she tried so hard to save Bellatrix but failed.

"Things change." She pulls the sheet around her slender frame and bows her head. "I think you should leave."

Bellatrix doesn't put up a fight. Alice always admired how she can hold herself with such a regal air. Nothing shakes her, not even stinging rejection. "If you change your mind…"

"I won't."

But, oh, she wishes she could.


	2. Sand (DaphnePansy)

_Word Count: 634_

* * *

"This is nice," Daphne murmurs, digging her toes into the warm sand and watching the sun's reflection ripple across the blue water.

She can't remember the last time she's allowed herself to just stop and breathe. Between her shifts at St. Mungo's and preparing for the birth of her nephew, Daphne has had her hands tied. Now, she and her girlfriend finally have a moment to themselves.

She looks around, grinning. The beach is empty, save for a few seagulls that glide through the air and dip into the small waves below. It's a perfect day.

"Can you put some sunscreen on me?" Daphne asks, leaning forward and pushing her curls off her back. "I'm about to shrivel up."

"You would make a cute raisin," Pansy murmurs before pulling the sunscreen out of the bag.

The cream is cold on her warm skin, and Daphne can't help but jump at the sudden temperature drop. She squeaks, glancing over her shoulder.

"Sorry," her girlfriend says, though she doesn't sound very sorry at all.

Pansy begins working the cream slowly into Daphne's skin. Daphne closes her eyes, enjoying the soft touch. It's nice, almost like having a massage.

Her eyes open again when Pansy tugs at the straps of her neon green bikini. "What are you doing?" she asks, heat flooding her cheeks. "This isn't a nude beach!"

Pansy chuckles and leans in, soft lips grazing over Daphne's exposed neck. "Any beach is a nude beach if you're brave enough," she murmurs before lightly nipping at the skin.

"Since when were you a Gryffindor?" Daphne asks, the last syllable breaking off into a moan.

It isn't fair that anyone can unravel her like this.

"No one's around," Pansy says, tugging the bikini top away. "Come on. Sex on the beach is so good they named a cocktail after it."

Why does she actually want to? It's ridiculous. Just because the beach is empty doesn't mean it will stay that way. Anyone could find them. The _Daily Prophet _would have a field day if they got their hands on such a scandalous story. Daphne could imagine Rita Skeeter so clearly in her head, smirking as she added little embellishment to keep her readers engaged in the controversy.

"I'm serious…"

"So am I," Pansy says.

And with that, the bikini top is pulled away. Daphne looks around, expecting someone to stumble upon them and see her so exposed and vulnerable. Strangely enough, the idea of it sends a shiver of excitement down her spine.

"See?" Pansy guides her along, laying her on her back. "It's just me and you."

The sand is uncomfortable against her skin, but Daphne ignores it. Her desire is much greater, and it only increases as Pansy straddles her, lightly grinding against her as she reaches down and pinches Daphne's nipple. Daphne moans, her breathing unsteady.

"Tease."

Pansy smirks. "You like it," she says, leaning down and capturing Daphne's lips in a rough kiss.

She should care. In the back of Daphne's mind, she knows she should. The Greengrass family may be progressive, as far as traditional pureblood families go, but she can't help but think this is a little too open for their minds.

Someone could see.

Someone could expose them.

Someone could ruin their lives forever.

But as Pansy pulls Daphne's bikini bottoms away and slips a finger inside, Daphne doesn't care about anything else except her own pleasure.

…

"There is sand _everywhere_," Daphne whines, wincing slightly as the movement causes some discomfort. "Oh, Merlin. Why is there so much sand?"

"Next time we'll bring a blanket," Pansy chuckles.

Daphne raises her brows. "Who said there will be a next time?"

Pansy smirks and pulls her close, kissing her forehead. "I did. Now, let's go home. We both need a shower."


	3. Second Chances Wasted (PercyPenelope)

_Word Count: 431_

* * *

_"No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear." - CS Lewis_

* * *

Percy hates himself for feeling like this. Well… That isn't quite true. He doesn't feel anything at all, and that terrifies him.

Fred is gone, and it's all his fault. His family tries to comfort him, but he can't stand it. It would be easier if they would just blame him and tell him how much they hate him.

But they don't. They never will.

…

Penelope comes back into his life two and a half weeks after the final battle. He doesn't mean for it to happen, but she looks so warm and familiar in her bubblegum pink dress. How can he say no?

…

They fall into bed, a tangle of limbs. There's lace beneath her dress. He wonders absently if she picked them out just for him; she shouldn't have. He doesn't care about that.

All he wants is to feel _something. _Anything.

He pushes himself inside her.

…

She brings him a rose and tells him it's going to be okay.

"You're in a relationship with me," he says, though he isn't sure _relationship _is the right word. "Everything will never be okay."

That doesn't push her away. Instead, she just holds him close and kisses him hard.

…

They are sweat-slick and moving together in perfect harmony. Penelope screams in ecstasy, digging her nails into his back.

And that's it. That's what it takes. As he feels the lines of fire scratched into his skin, he feels alive, if only for a moment.

…

He is breaking, and he wonders if anyone can see. This is more than just tears and broken hearts. He is so bloody afraid, and he doesn't know what to do anymore.

…

"You can't let yourself be held hostage by your memories," Penelope tells him.

He doesn't want to listen. Not now. Not about this.

His fingers tangle in her curls, and she moans as he guides her closer, his lips finding hers.

All he wants is to feel.

…

"Do you love me?" she whispers as they lie together in bed, breathless and slick with sweat.

Percy wants to tell her that he does, that this is more than just physical. She had been his first love, his promise of forever. Now he isn't sure that he believes in forever.

This should be easier. How many blokes get a second chance like this? He knows what he wants to hear, and he could convince her of anything.

Instead, he just stares at the ceiling. "I'm sorry."


	4. Perfect (DudleyPiers)

_Word Count: 779_

* * *

University brings all sorts of new experiences. Dudley would never have had the courage to even admit his feelings for blokes, let alone act on those feelings. Now, however, Piers straddles his lap, kissing him. How long have they been at it? Dudley's lost track by now. All he knows is it feel so right.

Piers pulls away, gasping for breath. A grin plays at his lips before he leans in again, slowly kissing a trail down Dudley's neck. Dudley groans, cheeks burning. It isn't like they haven't done more than kiss before. There have been a few occasions where mouths would explore freely.

But this feels different. This feels…

His face grows hotter as his body responds to the stimulation. He knows that feeling all too well. How many times did he catch a glimpse of a naked, muscled schoolmate in the locker room? How many times did he feel that aching throb, that desperate urge for relief.

"We…" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "We should probably… We should probably stop."

"Stop?" Piers echoes, pulling away again, dark brows raising as he studies Dudley's face. "We just started."

Dudley swallows dryly. He wants to keep going; he wants to find sweet release. But he can't help but to feel nervous.

"Is something wrong?" The teasing fades from Piers' expression. His toffee-colored eyes swim with concern. "We don't have to do anything if you aren't comfortable."

Dudley shakes his head. It isn't that he doesn't want to. Even though he's never done anything more than kiss anyone (he felt Naomi Montgomery's breasts under her jumper when he was fourteen, but his lack of interest was the deciding factor that he was, in fact, gay) he isn't afraid of his first time. His fear is so much deeper than that.

"Have you ever noticed that I keep my shirt on when we're snogging?" Dudley asks.

Piers purses his lips, undoubtedly wracking his brain. After several moments, he shrugs. "I suppose. It's normal though, isn't it? It isn't like we get hot and heavy all the time."

Dudley shakes his head. "It's…"

He moves back, shifting Piers off his lap. His boyfriend pouts slightly but doesn't protest. Dudley climbs to his feet and moves in front of the full-length mirror on the wall.

He's come a long way from the fat kid. Between boxing and damn near starving himself, the fat has melted away. He knows that. He's seen the drastic change in the number on the scale; he's bought smaller and smaller clothes as he's developed more muscles.

And yet he can't see himself like that. Others comment on his figure and talk about how crazy it is that he lost so much weight. All Dudley sees is fat. There are still softer spots on his body, particularly around his stomach, and he hates himself for letting it get that bad.

Piers appears beside him, his hand gripping the hem of Dudley's shirt. "Trust me," he says softly.

As Piers starts to lift Dudley's shirt, Dudley feels a flicker of panic. Piers shushes him as his stomach is exposed, then his chest. "You're perfect," Piers murmurs, guiding the shirt over Dudley's head and tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

_Perfect. _Dudley doesn't feel perfect.

Piers is perfect with his long legs and warm eyes, his crooked smile and smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose. Dudley is average at best.

But Piers continues to whisper little assurances as he kisses Dudley's chest, his works slowly working their way down his body. Dudley trembles and his knees threaten to give out. Piers chuckles. "Maybe we should move this to the bed."

"M-maybe," Dudley says.

Piers stays close, his lips still roaming freely over Dudley's bare skin, exploring every exposed inch of him until they're at the bed again. "Are you sure you want this?" Piers asks. "I know you're nervous, and I don't want you to feel pressured or anything."

"I want this."

With a nod, Piers unbuckles Dudley's belt before pulling it away. It hits the floor with a soft _thud. _Piers makes quick work of the button and zipper. Dudley's jeans join the rest of his clothes.

He has never felt so vulnerable. The voice in his head is still screaming, still reminding him that he should cover up. He isn't sure if his body shakes and trembles from nerves or from pleasure as Piers' teeth nip and tease the sensitive insides of his thighs.

But as Piers tells him again and again how perfect he is, Dudley slowly starts to believe. He closes his eyes, giving in to the warm euphoria that washes over him.


	5. In Secret (PansyNarcissa)

_For Lucy_

_Word Count: 711_

* * *

Really, it's almost laughable. No one questions why Pansy is at Malfoy Manor three times a week. As far as anyone knows, she is being a good little pureblood, and Narcissa is teaching her domestic magic to aid her when she finds a husband.

Pansy wonders if anyone knows that Narcissa is terrible at domestic magic. Narcissa is a goddess with a cauldron, and she knows every poison by sight. But cleaning charms? Culinary spells? Narcissa is as useless as they come.

But Pansy doesn't mind. It isn't the lessons she's there for. Truth be told, she has no intention of ever finding a husband. She loves her life and all the excitement she finds with her independence.

No, it's Narcissa Malfoy that keeps her coming back for more.

"You're staring again," Narcissa murmurs.

Pansy smirks. "What do you expect?" she asks, watching as her lover leans against the kitchen counter. "That's not an appropriate outfit for teaching, is it?"

Narcissa raises a brow as she smoothes her hands over the black silk dress. It's short and clings to her subtle curves so perfectly. The movement, Narcissa's fingers slowly gliding over the fabric, is hypnotizing, and Pansy can't seem to look away. She is too eager; all she can think about is tearing the dress from her slender body and having her way with her.

But she can't. Not yet. It has become something of a game with them. How long can they tease before the other breaks? Pansy refuses to give in.

"Is there something wrong with my outfit?" Narcissa asks, shifting her body just right so that the left strap falls from her shoulder. "I picked it especially for you, darling."

Pansy swallows. It isn't fair that such a simple sentence can drive her wild. The glitter of amusement in Narcissa's eyes tells Pansy that the older woman knows exactly what she's doing; she loves the little game as much as Pansy.

"It's lovely."

Narcissa pushes herself up from the counter and closes the distance between them in a few quick strides, the dress clinging to her hips with each mesmerizing sway. "Only lovely?" she asks. "Tell the truth."

She moves behind Pansy, stroking her hair with one hand. Pansy closes her eyes, unable to resist the soft moan that spills from her lips. "You're playing dirty," Pansy accuses, though she most definitely is not complaining.

"You have no idea," Narcissa murmurs, reaching down and slipping her hand between Pansy's legs.

…

Pansy lays on the cold kitchen floor, exhausted. Her dark eyes remain fixed upon the chandelier overhead, studying the prisms of the crystals that drop from it. "How have we never done it in the kitchen before?" she muses.

"Done it?" Narcissa echoes, her lips curling into an annoyed scowl as she sits up. "How crude. Only barbarians _do it._"

Pansy chuckles. Sometimes she forgets about the generation gap between them, and that Narcissa likes to present herself as prim and proper. She sits up, pausing to admire Narcissa's body. "Fine. How have we never made passionate love in the kitchen before? How have I never thought to throw you on the counter, spread your legs, and–"

"Please," Narcissa interrupts, shaking her head. "We don't have time for another round." Her eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. "Lucius will be home soon."

It seems to shatter everything. Pansy's lips twitch, her chest tightening. Without a word, she nods and gathers her discarded clothes, trying to ignore the knots in her stomach.

She loves Narcissa, and she knows that Narcissa loves her too. But they have to keep this a secret; the scandal of it would be too much for Narcissa to take. Even though Pansy is content with breaking barriers and being her own person, Narcissa is bound by tradition. She has to remain by Lucius' side and pretend to be faithful.

Pansy knows this. Maybe she even accepts this. It still hurts, though.

"Same time Thursday?" Narcissa asks, already dressed. No one could look at her and work out the truth. She is all grace and composure, and she is so bloody perfect that it makes Pansy's heart break even more.

"Thursday," Pansy confirms with a nod.

If only it could be every day.


	6. To Survive (LyallFenrir)

_Prison!au_

_Word Count: 819_

* * *

Lyall does not belong in prison, but he has quickly learned that no one really cares about that. He can scream that he had only been trying to protect his son, but it only falls on deaf ears.

In here, behind the bars, the other prisoners look at him as fresh meat. In the month he's been here, he's already been jumped three times. One of those instances resulted in a shank becoming embedded in his skin.

Lyall is too soft for this. He's always taught Remus to stand his ground, but that doesn't seem like an option here. Everything just leads to more pain.

That's why he has to do this. Lyall has weighed his options again and again, and this is his only chance. Hope will never find out. If she does, Lyall thinks she might find it in her to understand. Surely she will be able to see that this is the only way he can stay alive. If he doesn't do this, he has no chance of ever seeing her or Remus again.

Fenrir Greyback is a notorious murderer. Lyall remembers following the trial back home. The man never tried to deny it. Anyone looking at him can see he's a little crazed.

When Fenrir took a liking to him, Lyall was disgusted. He could never even think about letting a monster get close to him.

Now… It's amazing what a month can change.

He touches his finger to the hole in his arm where the shank had been. It still hurts like hell, and that pain is a reminder that he has to do whatever it takes.

Trembling, Lyall enters Fenrir's cell. Fenrir looks up from the book he's reading, grinning when he sees Lyall there. That grin does nothing to soften his features. If anything, it makes him look predatory, like a hungry wolf who has just found a wounded bunny for dinner.

"Pretty boy," he says, setting the book aside and climbing to his feet. "And here I thought you'd never come around."

Lyall swallows dryly. "If I do this, will you keep me safe?"

"As safe as I can."

Lyall shakes his head. "That's not good enough!"

He realizes his mistake too late. Fenrir is on him in a heartbeat, his hand wrapping around Lyall's throat and crushing his windpipe. In the back of his mind, he wonders where the guards are. Somehow, he doubts they'll even care. Everyone knows that Fenrir runs this place.

"Listen here, you little shit," Fenrir growls. "I can only do so much. I'm not a miracle worker. If your dumb ass gets jumped when I'm not around, that's on you, not me. Got it?"

"G-got it," Lyall rasps out, tears clinging to his lashes.

The grip loosens, and Fenrir takes a step back, licking his lips. "You're sure about this, Lupin?" he asks. "I'll give you one chance to walk away. And I mean _one. _Once you agree, you're mine."

Lyall trembles. Maybe he should take him up on that offer. But then he remembers the times he's been jumped. Even long after the fact, he can still vividly recall what it's like to have a tray slammed into his face, or to be knocked to the ground while three men stomp and kick him.

He has to stay safe. He has to survive.

"I'm sure," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fenrir positions his sheet in a way to block the cell from view. Anyone who passes will still know exactly what's going on, but at least it gives Lyall some privacy; he can still pretend that he has a little dignity.

"Come now." Fenrir moves closer, skillfully tucking his thumbs into the elastic of Lyall's pants. He tugs, forcing Lyall to stumble forward. "Since it's your first time, I'll be gentle."

Lyall doesn't quite believe him. Even Fenrir's little touches are rough and claiming. His are more teeth than tongue, and his hands leave bruises in their wake.

Lyall is surprised to realize he loves it. He and hope have always been conventional. There has never been any need to spice things up between them.

But this…

Lyall is already halfway over the edge, maddened by it all when Fenrir finally forces him against the wall, biting his neck as he pulls the ugly orange pants away.

…

It works. He doesn't know exactly how word managed to spread, but they seem to keep their distance now. Lyall doesn't like the way they look at him, or the way they sneer as they hiss, "Bitch." as he walks by.

But this is only temporary. If he can get through this, he will be okay. They will all be left behind, and he will have his life back.

Fenrir catches his eye, winking at him and blowing a kiss. Lyall nods, cheeks burning.

Only three and a half more years to go.


	7. Living the Dream (RonViktor)

_Word Count: 664_

* * *

Ron has regressed back to an obsessive fan. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. This is hardly the first time he's ever spoken to Viktor, though it is the most intimate encounter they've had.

And he gets the feeling Viktor wants to get even more intimate.

"Beer?" Viktor asks.

Ron nods, temporarily forgetting how to speak. If Viktor finds his silence strange, he doesn't say anything; he hands Ron a bottle, staying close. Ron uncaps it and takes a deep drink.

"Are you nervous?" Viktor asks, brows raising.

_Nervous. _Ron thinks that might be the understatement of the century. How can he not be nervous? Viktor Krum is a celebrity, a man who is desired by _everyone. _Somehow, he's chosen to bring Ron back to his house. Anyone with half a brain would be nervous.

"I-I'm fine," Ron manages.

Viktor chuckles, moving behind him. His hands rest on Ron's shoulders, and he begins to massage them gently. A soft moan escapes Ron's lips. It should be illegal for something to feel so good.

Viktor leans in, his lips grazing Ron's ear. "I'm just getting started," he murmurs.

With that, he turns Ron around before gripping his chin. Their lips meet, and there's something so desperate, so needing in Viktor's kiss. The bottle falls from his hand, shattering on the tile below. Ron mumbles and apology, but Viktor only kiss him harder, his hands gripping Ron's waist.

"Tell me I didn't misread you," Viktor says, his voice low and throaty with desire as he pushes run back, pressing him against the wall. "You want this?"

Ron doesn't even hesitate. "I do," he says.

He's been a fan for so long. More than once, he's wondered what it would be like to be noticed by Viktor, to be wanted by him. Now is his chance to find out. So far, it feels fantastic.

Viktor tugs Ron's shirt off before kissing him again. His lips move slowly along his skin, pausing to focus on his neck. Between the nipping and kissing and sucking, Ron knows he will have a mark there. There's something thrilling about that. Viktor Krum is leaving marks on his body.

Viktor kisses his way across Ron's collarbones. Ron's eyes close, his mind racing. How is this actually happening? He's been a fan of Viktor's for so long, and this is something he would never even dare to dream of.

Viktor's hand drops, palming Ron through his jeans. Ron responds to the touch, moaning and pushing his hips forward, desperate for the denim to be discarded so that he can feel skin against skin.

"The bedroom," Viktor murmurs. "I think it would be better for this."

Ron considers telling him that the room isn't important. Viktor could have him in every room, on every surface. He wouldn't mind at all.

Instead, he just nods. His mind is too blurred by need and desire to even think. Viktor leads him along, and Ron is more than happy to follow.

…

"This was fun," Viktor says, tracing his finger over Ron's collarbone.

Ron nods. He clears his throat and sits up, biting the inside of his cheek. Insecurity stirs within him. Viktor Krum is one of the most famous Quidditch players in the world. He probably does this all the time. Suddenly, Ron doesn't feel so special.

Viktor sits up and rests a hand on Ron's thigh. "I have a game Saturday," he says. "Perhaps after we can have dinner. Unless you want this to just be… this."

Ron can't really wrap his head around it. Viktor actually _wants _to see him again? He pinches himself, more than a little worried he might be dreaming. When he feels the discomfort of the pinch and gets his confirmation, he nods. "Dinner, yeah. That would be great."

For years, Viktor has been his hero. Sometimes it would even border on pure idolatry. But now there is something there. He is living every fan's dream


	8. Need Someone (RegBarty)

_For my darling Sophie._

_Word Count: 1013_

_Warnings for implied_ abuse

* * *

He's shivering, and he looks so fucking haunted that Regulus can't close the door on him.

"Please," Barty whispers, looking up at Regulus with wide eyes. Regulus can't tell if his skin is wet from tears or from the rain. Maybe both. "I just need someone."

And Regulus wonders why he would come _here _of all places. Couldn't he have sent an owl and asked to meet somewhere, anywhere else but here? His mother will murder him if she finds out that a _Crouch _is here because all anyone really sees anymore is his father's name. Barty Crouch Sr., a thorn in the side of almost everyone in the family.

Judging by the hint of purple near Barty's left eye, Regulus reckons that's exactly what brings him here now. Everyone looks at Barty's father like the sun shines out of his arse, but Regulus knows the return. Crouch Sr. won't be winning the Father of the Year award any time soon.

"Come in," Regulus says, and he knows he should send Barty away, but he doesn't have the heart to do it. "You have to be quiet. If Mother finds out…"

His mother loves him and won't do anything to him. Not really. Still, Regulus doesn't have it in him to break her heart. There's only so much it can take after Sirius' rubbish.

They make their way carefully along. Regulus doesn't think his mother will be out anytime soon. At the very least, he hopes she won't be. The staircase seems so long, like the house has grown an additional fifty stories, and his room is so far away.

"Inside," Regulus says when they finally make it. "Quickly."

He pushes Barty more roughly than intended, but his boyfriend doesn't protest. Regulus lingers outside a moment longer, listening for any indication that anyone might have seen or heard them. Satisfied that they have made it through undetected, he steps inside his room, closing the door behind him.

"Do you ever clean in here?" Barty asks, lifting a pair of dirty socks from Regulus' bed.

Regulus blushes, striding over and snatching the socks from him. He tosses them unceremoniously to the floor, huffing. "Well, you seem so much more cheerful now," he snaps.

Barty flinches, and Regulus instantly regrets the sharpness in his voice. It isn't fair to get upset with him. He knows that Barty has to deal with so much at home. If Regulus is his safe place, so be it.

"I'm sorry."

"I can clean for you," Barty offers, his voice fading and just above a whisper.

"Don't be stupid. That's what Kreacher is for." Regulus sits on his bed and pats a spot on the mattress. "Are you just going to stand there?"

Barty shakes his head and nearly stumbles in his rush to get to Regulus. It's actually pretty cute. Once, Regulus had found Barty's awkwardness to be annoying; now, it's nothing short of endearing.

"What happened this time?" Regulus asks, reaching out and brushing his fingers through Barty's straw-blond hair, a frown on his lips. "What did he do?"

Regulus can guess. It's always the same. Barty returns from holidays with fresh bruises and feeble excuses for anyone who asks. No one ever does. No one besides Regulus at least, and once Regulus had learned the truth, he never needed to ask again.

Barty opens his mouth before closing it again. For several seconds, he just sits there in silence with his lips pressed into a hard, thin line. He shakes his head. "I don't… I…"

His fingers tangle in Regulus' hair, forcing him closer. Regulus lets out a sound that is halfway between a moan and a gasp. Barty has never been so forceful. Not _his _Barty. Not his timid little mouse. Regulus rather likes it. A shiver of excitement shoots down his spine.

Barty presses his lips to Regulus'. This isn't the soft, chaste kisses they've shared countless times before. There is something so raw, so desperate in the way Barty slips his tongue into Regulus' mouth. Barty is searching for something, and Regulus hopes that he can find it.

Barty's hands move frantically, tugging at Regulus' shirt. The kiss is broken long enough to pull the shirt off and toss it to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Regulus asks. "Not that I'm complaining. I just…"

His words are swallowed up by Barty's mouth as he captures Regulus' lips in another kiss. Regulus can taste the hunger and need on his boyfriend's lips. It makes him tremble. He has never seen Barty like this. He is terrifying, but he is so bloody magnificent.

Regulus finds himself on his stomach. He can't remember how I got into this particular position. His mind spins and blurs with everything that's happening, but he doesn't mind as Barty tugs his trousers away, then his underwear.

Barty's nails rake lightly over Regulus' exposed back, drawing a moan from Regulus. Barty does it again, harder now and leaving behind lines of heat that leave Regulus squirming and whimpering.

"Can I?" Barty asks, and for a moment Regulus hears _his _Barty.

"Yes."

And that's all it takes. He feels a slick finger enter, stretching him slowly. Moments later, Barty is inside him, thrusting, and Regulus' face is buried in the pillow.

…

When it's over, they lay together, a mess of tangled limbs beneath a sheet. Regulus is breathless and covered in sweat as he manages to pull away. Still shivering and lost in the aftershocks of the moment, he fumbles with the cigarettes on his bedside table. His hands tremble as he plucks one from the pack and tucks it between his lips, lighting it.

"I hope I didn't hurt you," Barty says, brushing his fingers over Regulus' chest.

"You didn't."

It had been a strange sensation, maybe a little painful, but not at all unpleasant. Regulus smiles to himself as he exhales a puff of smoke.

"What brought that on?" Regulus asks, brows raising curiously.

"I just needed someone."

Regulus smiles and ruffles Barty's hair. "Well, you have me. Always."


	9. Workout (Wolfstar)

_Word Count: 424_

* * *

"Why is the tub in the prefects' bath so big?" Sirius demands, eyes wide when he takes it in. "It's like a bloody swimming pool!"

Remus doesn't even notice it anymore. He thinks he had been impressed by it his first time to use the bath, but now it's just a tub. Nothing special, nothing fancy.

"Imagine the cardio you could get in this thing, just swimming laps," Sirius muses, seemingly mesmerized by the tub. "Then again, I can think of a great way to get some cardio in."

Remus rolls his eyes and drops his towel before stepping. Sirius whistles.

"Shall I describe the ideal workout in explicit detail, Moony?" he asks, his towel joining Remus' on the floor. It doesn't take long for Sirius to wade to where Remus stands. "I think you'll like it."

Remus shivers despite the warm water that laps against his body. Only Sirius can have this effect on him. He doesn't have to lift a finger. All it takes is one look, and Remus is all his.

"First, we get the bubbles going."

Remus obliges. The water fills with rose and lavender scented bubbles. Sirius grins his approval and moves in, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides.

"And then what?" Remus asks.

"I think it's best that I show you l, actually," Sirius murmurs, pressing Remus against the side of the tub.

Remus' breathing hitches as he feels Sirius' lips on his neck, kissing a slow trail to his chest. It's like he's waited for this moment for all his life. Pure bliss erupts throughout his body.

This isn't how he imagined his first time would be. He'd always assumed there would be a bed, and everything would be so meticulously planned. Somehow, he doesn't mind this.

Sirius carefully spins him around so that his belly is resting against the side. "Perfect," Sirius whispers, his fingers ghosting down Remus' back. "You're so fucking perfect."

…

The bubbles have all faded by the time they're done. Remus is sore and slick and out of breath, but it just feels so good.

"Got your cardio in for today then?" Remus teases, pressing a soft kiss to his boyfriend's cheek.

Sirius grins in response, climbing out of the tub. Remus follows behind him, grabbing his towel from the floor and wiping the beads of water from his skin.

"You know, it's good to have a workout routine," Sirius tells him. "What do you think? Fancy being my workout partner?"

Remus just laughs. "Sounds like a plan."


End file.
